


Pigeon Patrol

by Evenlodes_Friend



Series: On The Wing [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, M/M, Sequel, Wingfic, flying together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6874021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis and Hathaway face up to the music after their unmasking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pigeon Patrol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callicat49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callicat49/gifts), [Guinevere81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guinevere81/gifts), [Complicated light (ComplicatedLight)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/gifts), [Lindenharp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/gifts).



> Just having a bit of fun with wingfics at the moment. I think this is turning into a silly series!

  


 

            Innocent scowls at them across the vast gulf of her mahogany desk.

            ‘You do realise what they are calling you around the station, don’t you?’

            James decides discretion is the better part of valour on this one.

            Lewis seems unable to restrain himself.  He snorts.

            ‘Oh, you think its funny do you?’

            ‘Well, Ma’am, I’ve spent fifty years keeping this a secret.  Now it’s out, worrying about it just seems a bit daft, to be honest.’  He shrugs, philosophical as ever.  ‘It’s not the worst thing I’ve heard, anyway.’

            Amen to that, James agrees inside his head.  Heard worse?  Damn right he has, and pretty much from the cradle, too. Just the snipes he got from his dad and sister as a child put whatever the likes of Hooper can come up with in the shade. 

            None of which seems to matter right now.  In fact, as Lewis says, none of it matters now.  The only thing that matters is this:

            He’s not alone anymore.  He’s not the only one.

            Of course, empirically, he knew that was the case, but it is quite another thing actually meeting someone like himself face to face.  Or wing to wing, one might say.  And entirely another thing again to actually fly with them.

            For a moment, the memory assails him of the two of them, whirling in the air above the derelict factory as flames engulfed it.  Round and round they circled, riding the thermals created by the conflagration below, grinning at each other, giggling like a pair of idiots at the sheer joy of it.

            Flying together.

            Its been months since he was able to feel the wind under his wings, lifting him away from the all the cares of the world.  It is too hard these days to find a space free of air traffic or drones, unmonitored, a place where onlookers wouldn’t catch sight of him.  Pale feathers hardly act as camouflage, even at night.  He knows he looks like a barn owl, a white ghost coasting across the fields in the twilight.  A bloody big barn owl, mind you, but nevertheless.  Lewis is luckier.  Feather hue matches hair colour, and Lewis is dark, his quills basically the same rich, deep mahogany that his hair once was.  Here and there, he’s developed a grey one, but overall, if his pale body was covered, he’d be able to fly unseen in the night sky.  Of course, he’d stick out like a sore thumb in daylight, but you can’t have everything.

            Staring at the wall behind Innocent’s head, James is suddenly filled with the desire to get out there again, on the wing, up above the city, swooping behind his boss, looping and twirling like a pair of swallows.  He has to stare hard to concentrate on Innocent’s tirade.  She’s trying a new tack.

            ‘…senior officers like you two should know better than to enter a derelict building in pursuit of a known murderer without backup.  Does the word experience mean _anything_ to you, Inspector?’

            ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Lewis says, and James can hear the dry humour in his tone.  ‘It usually means knowing what you can get away with.  Unfortunately, we got a bit more than we bargained for, on this occasion.’

            ‘And exposed the force to ridicule and unwanted scrutiny in the process!’  She gets up, picks up a file, thinks better of it, and slaps it back down on the desk.

            ‘I mean, _really_?  Acting like a pair of bloody schoolboys!  Haven’t you got _any_ sense?’

            Its like being told off by a despairing aunt.

           The memory comes back to him of the pair of them, perched on the lip of the roof of St Godbold’s College, with its monolithic thirties exterior, looking down on the fire a few hundred yards away, in the swathe of industrial areas and parking that forms the south side of the city centre. 

            ‘We ought to get down there,’ James said.  ‘They’ll be looking for us.  I couldn’t live with myself if they sent a fire team into that after us, and someone got hurt.’

            ‘Yeah,’ Lewis said.  ‘Can’t sit up here roosting like a pair of bloody pigeons all night.’

            They looked at each other.

            ‘Good, though, wasn’t it?’ Lewis said, and James grinned back at him.  In perfect time, they both stretched out their wings, easing the cramp in their shoulders that comes from hours of being bound up under layers of stretch fabric just to look normal.

            ‘God, I love feeling the wind in my feathers,’ James sighed.

            ‘Yep,’ Lewis agreed, and the long dark primaries at his back rustled and rattled as he shook them.  ‘Nothing like it.  Never mind.’

            He stood up.  ‘Come on, lad.  Better get down there and start the damage limitation.’

            ‘Do you think Furston got out?’ James asked him, standing up too.  He couldn’t remember seeing the murderer they had been chasing after the smoke had forced them onto the staircase.

            ‘Rats always know how to get out of a sinking ship,’ Lewis shrugged.  ‘Especially if they gnawed the hole themselves.  Reckon he’ll have known exactly how to escape.’

            He bundled his clothes and binder into a tighter knot against his chest, with a sigh of clear resignation.

            ‘Come on.  Time to face the music.’

            ‘Dawn chorus,’ James quipped.

            ‘Yeah, look, enough with the bird metaphors, okay?  We’re going to be in enough trouble as it is, and I don’t reckon we’ll be short of nicknames for a while.’

            ‘Pigeon Patrol,’ James suggested.

            ‘Try Swift and Swallow,’ Lewis told him.  He groaned in response.

* * *

             Julie is standing by Lewis’ desk when they get back from their dressing-down. Her cheeks are a bit pink.  She is clearly trying very hard not to look at their backs.  James appreciates her attempt at pretending nothing has happened, and gives her a big smile.  She returns it with relief.  Maybe everything will be alright after all.

            He turns to Lewis.  ‘Look, given that everybody knows now, is there any sense in wearing this poxy contraption at the moment?’

            ‘Help yourself,’ Lewis says, sitting down stiffly.  At least James now knows the reason for his back problems anyway.  ‘If you don’t mind, I shan’t expose my saggy bits for all the world to see.’

            ‘You don’t have any saggy bits, sir,’ James says, innocently, stripping away his tie, and scrabbling at his shirt buttons.  The binder is off in a trice, and he groans with relief, rubbing his shoulders.  He lets his wings spread out a bit, manages to knock a pencil pot off his desk in the process, and swears as he bends to pick it up.  He catches the shimmer of his feathers in the morning sun from the corner of his eye.

            Julie gawps.

            ‘Was there something you needed to tell us, Julie,’ Lewis interjects, rescuing her from embarrassment, and her own curiosity.  James suddenly feels self conscious.  Are they both staring at his wings, or his naked chest?

            ‘Yes, er, um.’  She turns to Lewis.  ‘Uniform caught Furston trying to sneak out of the back goods entrance of the factory.  They’ve got him down in the cells.  Available for interview at your convenience, the desk sergeant said.’

            ‘Aye,’ Lewis nods.  ‘I bet that’s not all he said.  Thanks, Julie.  At least we got something out of this mess.’

            ‘You got a bit more than Furston,’ Julie says.  ‘Have you seen this?’

            She holds out the latest edition of the Oxford Mail. The front page is filled by a lurid picture of the burning fire, with bird-like shapes picked out in black against the orange flames.  The headline is equally lurid.

            ‘AIRBORNE POLICE CAPTURE MURDERER IN FLAME DRAMA’

            Underneath, a tiny paragraph leads to the full story over the page.  The general gist is that ‘our boys’ are heroes, their wings a secret weapon in the fight against crime.  The paper’s editorial calls for them to receive commendations, at the very least.  Far from making the force a laughing-stock, as Innocent feared, they seem to have become Oxford’s own super heroes.

            ‘Oh, God,’ Lewis groans.  ‘They’ll be wanting us to open fetes and kiddies parties next!’

            James just laughs.  ‘I don’t think so, sir.  I suspect the Pigeon Patrol will have far too much crime to fight for that!’

* * *

TBC  



End file.
